


One Day, Soon

by antediluvianevil



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 19:47:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9400496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antediluvianevil/pseuds/antediluvianevil
Summary: "You don't have to lie, Solas."He said nothing.





	

He stared up at the fresco. A depiction of the Nightmare in the Fade stood there, present, but not detailed. If he were to be honest, painting the demon was something he would rather not be doing. So many bad thoughts and memories surrounded the being—he will never forget Atisha’s face after seeing the headstone in the fake graveyard—he considered not including it, but history must be accurate.

 _Speak_ __ _to me, traitor_.

He raised his brush again, and hesitated. Was it the right color? Maybe more grey—

_Your victory amounts to nothing._

—but then the color might be too light. He dabbed on the paint board, and thought. The color was fine. Just his technique in the piece was lacking. Perhaps he—

_Your pride will be your own undoing._

—would need to just start over—

“Solas.”

He jumped, unaware of Atisha’s presence next to him on the scaffolding ladder. She pulled herself up onto the platform with one arm and put down a tray covered with food between them. There were sweets and tarts of every kind, covered with spices or sugars or fruits. He placed down the brush and turned to her.

She smiled as she spoke. “I kept calling you, but you weren’t answering! I was given free reign over the kitchen, and I may have gone a bit . . .”

“I was unaware you could bake,” he commented. He wanted to indulge himself, but he had—

“I can, just when I was with the Dalish, were we rarely in a place long enough for us to consider building a small oven. It just wasn’t worth it.”

She pulled a small rag off her belt and took a small pitcher off the tray, wetting the cloth. She took his hands and started rubbing the paint and pigment off.

“Vhenan, this is a fresco, not a mural. I must finish—”

She looked up and smiled at him. “I was watching you paint. I could tell by the way you were hesitating that you want to redo the section.”

He paused. “Pardon?”

“I watch you paint all the time. You use quite a bit of body language when you think nobody's watching.”

. . . He does?

She finished cleaning his hands, but she continued holding them. “Or was it just because you were thinking of the Nightmare?”

He gave her a faint smile. “It was both,” he said and looked back to the food. “May I be educated on what’s what?”

Her face lit up then and she started listing off the small plates one by one. She started with the tarts and the cheese-based sweets—her specialty, she claimed—and then listed off countless types of cakes. Fruit, chocolate, spiced, savory, cheese, and even an Orlesian recipe.

She looked so proud of herself, he simply smiled as she went on. She rambled often, but she normally caught herself in the act. He truly realized how passionate she was about cooking. Nights around fires with a boiling pot over the embers, or the occasional Dalish dish showing up on his desk every so often at random hours during the day.

“—but it’s nice to know I’m not the only one thinking about it,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“The Nightmare,” she said. She glanced up at the fresco. “I haven’t had a decent night's sleep since Adamant.”

He hesitated. “It has been on my mind, yes.”

She picked up the small Orlesian cake and held it to him. “Made this one especially for you.”

He took it from her, hesitantly, and her smile beamed as she picked up one of the fruit tarts and looked back to the half complete fresco. He did not mean to stare, but he did. She was so beautiful, despite the scars covering her jaw and the vallaslin marring her face. She was beautiful and wonderful and he was so scared of losing her.

But one day, he was going to. He was going to get the orb back, and he was going to lose her.

He was—

“Ma vhenan!” she cried out. “Ma vhenan, what’s wrong?”

She took the cake out of his hands and held his face—was he crying?—as she kissed him.

“Did I say something wrong? Do you want to be left alone? I’ll go if—”

“No!” he exclaimed, and calmed as he grabbed her hands. “Stay. Please.”

She moved the tray off to the side and sat next to him, still letting him hold her hands. He kissed her brow.

“Is it the Nightmare?”

He shook his head.

“Did I do something wrong?”

He shook his head again. “No, vhenan. It has been a long day. Between the Nightmare and everything else, I am—”

She kissed him, and put her head on his shoulder. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

He said nothing.

“Maybe one day, soon, you can tell me what’s always eating away at you.”

He put his arms around her back and squeezed. He hoped. He truly did.

She kissed him. “It’s what the Nightmare mentioned, isn’t it?”

He gave her no answer, and she kissed him once more, on the cheek.

“You don’t need to bear your pain alone.”

_I do._

She said nothing else.


End file.
